You're warm against him, soft and happy in that way you get only when you're near sleep or near food… or, apparently, near his biceps.

He swears, he's fought actual metahumans with less determination than you have right now. The second he sits down on the couch—just wanting to relax, maybe breathe for a second after patrol—you crawl right into his space, grabs his arm, and wedges your face between his biceps like it’s a pillow specifically handcrafted by the heavens.

And then you melt. Like, physically melt. Cheeks squished, nose all scrunched up, eyes closed in bliss.

He looks down at you, and you look like the happiest hostage he's ever seen.

“My poor arm,” He mutters under his breath, lifting it a little just to test if he still has circulation. Nope. Captured. Claimed. Permanently assigned.

You only hums, nuzzling deeper into the muscle like you're burrowing for winter.

God, you're adorable.

And this is the part that gets him every time—you're not doing it to tease, you're not doing it because you know what it does to him (thankfully), you're just… content. Completely, utterly, hopelessly content.

He curls his arm a little around your head, not squeezing but holding you in place, because as much as he complains, the truth is he doesn't want you to move. Not even a little.

“The things I do for you,” He sighs dramatically.